


Nepotism

by torrentialTriages



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: F/M, i dont recommend reading if you havent found sucre, this is a kinda prequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torrentialTriages/pseuds/torrentialTriages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We know how the story ended. But we only guess at how it started.<br/>Perhaps it started with an abandoned little girl and the young merchant who finds her. Perhaps it is simply because of the young man who fails to keep his emotional distance that we even have a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Zone Zero

**Author's Note:**

> this wasn't actually my idea jizlum.tumblr.com suggested it and i hope to heaven i did it justice uvu i also know the meaning of nepotism clashes with the actual story but i had my reasons

He doesn’t know why she’s here.  
  
A small child, no more than eight or so, wrapped in a jacket with sleeves that trail on the ground as she stares up at him with large pale eyes. She doesn’t smile, but that is almost to be expected. She’s pretty bruised and messy, covered in suspicious gunk, most of it black. Especially two little divots of what look like blood flanking her dimples. Looks like burnt sugar. She must have been caught in a crowd of Elsen all trying to set the world record for amount of panic attacks triggered simultaneously. Poor kid.  
  
She is the first to speak.  
  
“Hi.”  
  
He grips his bag of wares tighter, kneeling down to her eye level. “Hey, kid. What’s your name?” He must remind himself to be unattached. Don’t get attached, Zacharie, it’s a bad idea… oh my _gosh she’s so adorable._  
  
She tilts her head. “Sugar.” She’s staring. Her eyes are so clear for such a little kid. What happened to her? Does she understand the gravity of what had happened to her, if she even knew what had happened? “What’s yours?”  
  
He glances around, as if about to trust her with a secret, and he says solemnly, “My name is Zacharie. Nice to meet you, Sugar.”  
  
She nods, and what she gives him is a weak copy of the smile he will see many many times in the years to come.  
  
He glances her over, and realizes that the black gunk must be hard as hell to wash out. He sets his bag down, rummaging through the contents, which clink against themselves as he searches for something special. He finds it and pulls it out, showing her. “Hey, you’re covered in goo. I was thinking maybe, uh, you wanted to… clean up?”  
  
She takes the bar of soap (it’s blue, what even) in her hands, drowning in her oversized sleeves, and sniffs it. “What’s this?”  
  
“It’s soap. It helps you clean yourself.” Zacharie is at a loss for words. How do you speak to kids? There is a certain lack of young people in the Zones (he’s fairly certain he is the youngest character in this godforsaken game, apart from Hugo), and he’s not about to ask any of the Guardians how Elsen get made. If they’re made at all. He tilts forwards, startled, as she tentatively licks it. “Ah! You’re not supposed to eat it…” He clutches at his springy black hair in distress. “Soap’s made from, like, dead _animals_ , okay? Dead animals and _chemicals_! You shouldn’t be putting that shit in your mouth!”  
  
Her face is screwed up, saliva and froth bubbling up on her puckered lips. Trying to spit it out, he guesses. “I’m sorry,” she gags, nearly unintelligible through the grimaces she is pulling. “I- I’m sorry!” she repeats, and Zacharie is horrified at how fast she dissolves into tears, standing there and wailing. He pulls out a… tunic? He could’ve sworn he’d gotten more tissues. He bet Dedan had stolen them to watch cheesy romcoms. Typical jerkass tsundere. Anyway. He thrusts the tunic at her, hastily dabbing off the tears and accidentally smearing the gunk on her face and luminous blonde hair. It was so fine and pale, it seemed a shame to have such oily gunk all over it.  
  
“H-hey, kid, Sugar,” he manages, gripping her by the shoulders. “It’s okay, okay?” Smooth vocabulary, Zach. Thanks, Zach. “Um, uh…” He grabs at the opportunity. “Tell you what, I’ll help you clean up and you can meet a special kitty and, well, maybe I’ll tell you a story, okay?” That last one’s a lie if he ever heard one. The only story he knows is about the time he killed the Toad King, and he’s not sure he’s allowed to tell that to kids.  
  
The promise seems to calm her down a bit. He wipes away her snot, her tears, the gunk, with the tunic, and stands up, tossing all the junk back into his bag. “You wanna come?”  
  
Okay.” Her hand is cold. It is colder than the outside hallway of the Room. It is colder than the metal bat he sometimes takes out at night, stroking it in the moonlight, wondering why exactly he has such a thing in his inventory…  
  
He steers her gently towards the tall building, unmistakeable in its domination of Zone Zero’s horizon. He is scared of breaking her. She seems so fragile, the wind would sweep her up into the sea of plastic. A single touch the wrong way and she might crumble into a pile of the four elements, and thus his grip on her tiny pale hand is light as he gingerly avoids jerking her around the place.  
  
“Pablo,” he calls. A sleek white cat looks up from the bowl of cat food placed near the right-hand wall. It blinks. “To what do I owe this surprising encounter, Zacharie?” the Judge asks, pausing to lick a paw and dab it behind his ears. He grins, showing off his impressive fangs.  
  
“Pablo, this is Sugar. I found her here. I dunno what happened to her parents, but I figured I shouldn’t leave her out there. Sugar, this is The Judge. But you can call him Pablo.”  
  
“You’re a funny looking cat,” she says, wrinkling her nose, and the Judge merely smiles.  
  
“I understand what you mean to convey, my dear, but rest assured I am delighted to make your unprecedented and exceedingly joyful acquaintance.”  
  
She stares at the Judge, openmouthed, forehead slightly creased. Yep, Zacharie decides, she‘s lost. So he gives her a translation. “He means it’s nice to meet you.”  
  
“Oh.” She reaches out to pet Pablo. She smiles shyly. “It’s nice to meet you too.” Zacharie can’t even handle the cute, and he turns away briefly to regain his composure before remembering the mask prevented anyone from seeing how enamored he is with the cuteness of it all.  
  
But he shakes his head. God, Zach, he chastises himself. Don’t start squealing over the kid just because you found her. It’s not like you’re supposed to be her mother or anything.  
  
Pablo sniffs, or at least as close to a sniffing sound as cats can make, and he walks over to Zacharie. “Zacharie, may I suggest something?”  
  
“Sure, what gives?”  
  
“I would suggest you give her a bath. At least do something to clean her up.”  
  
“Yeah,” Zacharie muses, and they both look over at her, where she is ambling along, trying to sit on one of the floating blocks. “I was thinking of doing that.” He feels his cheeks heat up under the mask, and he ventures, “But, uh, how am I going to do that?”  
  
The Judge snorts mirthlessly, jerking his head at the door. “You have a means of transporting liquids for your own purposes, do you not? Use that. Collect plastic in such a receptacle and douse her with it.”  
  
“Yeah. Sure. I knew that.” He kneels to rummage in his bag again, and finds a… huh. “Since when did I have a paint can?” he mutters to himself, checking to see if it is empty. It is, but he decides to clean it out with some plastic before using it on her. Pink paint was not an ideal substance to slather oneself in.  
  
“Sugar!” he calls, and she turns towards him, slipping off the lone block near the front of the room in the process. She yelps and rubs her head sullenly. “Want to take a bath?”  
  
“Okay.” She shambles along casually, staring around the room one last time as she follows him out through the door.  
  
He looks around once he steps outside, and makes a hasty decision. He mildly regrets choosing to use a chest as a makeshift tub, but shakes it off. It’s not like silver meat is prone to rotting outside of a container. He dips the paint can in the plastic ocean, swilling a bit of plastic around in there with his hand to wash it out. The plastic turns a very Pepto-Bismol pink (god, why couldn’t Japhet have chosen a better color for his zone? Pablo was bound to complain about pollution), and he turns to where she stands barefoot beside the chest, which comes up to her elbows. “Uh, you might want to, mm, get in?” He gestures to the chest, which she considers much too critically for a little girl. “Hey, don’t judge. You’re special, okay?” She shrugs, and clambers in, landing with a hollow clatter. He pauses, full paint bucket in hand. “You might want to take your clothes off, kid.”  
  
“Name’s not kid,” she protests, and attempts to pull her leggings from underneath her, and ends up on her back like a turtle, staring up at him with such a wounded expression that he has to laugh. And help her with her clothes, albeit with much blushing that was thankfully hidden by the mask.  
  
She falls silent as he rhythmically pours liquid plastic over her and scrubs at the dirt and gunk as best as he can with a kitchen sponge he finds deep within the crevices of his bag. He eventually finds the silence oppressive and fidgets uncomfortably, searching for something to say as he hands her the sponge so he can refill the paint can.  
  
“Hey, do you know how to say your name in French?”  
  
“What’s French?” she asks, turning the sponge over in her hands.  
  
“It’s a language, just like the one you and I are speaking now. I speak French.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“But do you know how to say your name in French?” he plies, grinning behind the mask.  
  
“No.” She looks up at him from behind a curtain of soaking wet pale greyish hair.  
  
He looks around again furtively. “In French, I’d call you Sucre.”  
  
As much as he tries to resist, it becomes her special name from him from then on.  
  
***  
  
After that, wrapped in a pair of rolled-up baseball pants (came with the tunics, he guesses) and her jacket, he takes another look at her. This next decision is swift.  
  
“You need a haircut.” Her vehemence is equally swift in awakening.  
  
“No!” she screams, hurling herself at him and battering him with her small fists, as effective as hard bagels. “No haircuts!”  
  
“Okay, okay!” he yelps, falling on his back as she thrashes around, slightly hindered by the sail-like baseball pants and the jacket. He struggles to push her off, grabbing her arms as she screams and babbles about her abhorrence of haircuts. “It’s okay, calm down! Nobody’s going to give you a haircut if you don’t want one!”  
  
She stops, heaving, and glares wild-eyed at him. “Really? You promise?”  
  
“Promise.” He even puts a hand over his heart. “Cross my heart and hope to die. The only reason you’re getting a haircut is if you ask for one.” _Which won’t be likely_ , he thinks, and he is surprised at the flare of guilt that rears its ugly head at the thought of leaving her behind. _Jesus, Zach, you’re getting soft._  
  
***  
  
She is peacefully asleep in the small room attached to the front of the building in Zone Zero when Zacharie is halted in his tracks, a few feet away from the red floating box, ready to step into the Nothingness.  
  
“Zacharie.” Pablo stalks out into the sharply-cut illumination of the moon. The sky is sprinkled with stars that twinkle and sing their secrets quietly to the stretching sea of black sky. “May I inquire as to where you are going at such an hour?”  
  
Zacharie rubs the back of his neck ruefully. “Aw, Pablo,” he confesses, “I don’t know what to do with her. I mean, she’s not my business, right? Somebody’s gonna come for her, right? But I still want to know she’s, like, doing well, you know what I mean?”  
  
Pablo’s customary smirk widens with glee. “Oh, my,” he purrs. “I do believe you have taken a turn for the maternal, my dear friend.”  
  
“No I haven’t,” the young merchant protests, folding his arms stubbornly. “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to her. That’s it. I don’t really care all that much, I swear.”  
  
“If I were to borrow a phrase from Dedan’s vernacular, bullshit.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you’re not a metal-headed jerkass like him. So shut it, okay? I’m going to go work on the roller coaster. Can’t sleep,” he lies.  
  
The Judge wiggles his feline eyebrows, and turns away. “If you insist. Pleasant dreams, when you finally do go to sleep.”  
  
“Yeah, whatever.”  
  
Then the Judge was alone, just him and an orphan girl under the stars and sky of Zone Zero.


	2. Zone One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zacharie goes selling in Zone One. Sucre becomes a part-time detective. Zacharie is secretly confused and scared. Pablo doesn't have any time for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wheezes loudly guess who sucks spoilers it's me

The next morning, he finds himself in Zone One, peddling his wares among the worker Elsen who were on break. Damien was a relatively quiet business centre, but he takes credits wherever he could get them.  
  
Zacharie pauses to polish his items which needed polishing, namely the bats which he still had no idea as to why they were in his possession. He wrinkles his nose at the fizzling drops of plastic that seem to adore devouring the shiny coating on several bats. Acid plastic. Who’da thunk. He hums to himself, ignoring the high-pitched complaints of the varnish-soaked rag against the bat’s wood, hoping to restore the former lustre of its glory days.  
  
Wait. What exactly was the high-pitched noise? He stops rubbing, but the squeaking persists. In fact, it was getting louder, and louder, until he could distinguish individual words…  
  
“Hi! I’m looking for Zacharie. He’s the tall guy, well I guess he’s not as tall as you, but he’s tall compared to me… He’s got a funny mask on, looks like a toad, black hair, big bag full of things?”  
  
“Hhhhhh,” gasps an Elsen, bewildered at the chittering girl. Zacharie himself is disbelieving, too. Where was the shy quiet girl he’d rescued? This Sugar was like a cockatoo on energy drinks.  
  
“Have you seen him?” She persists, pouting right up into the faces of the confounded workers. “Come on, I heard one of you say on the train that the merchant guy was coming soon! He’s gotta be _somewhere_ here!”  
  
Shit. Kid was scarily efficient.  
  
He curses quietly as he sees Pablo’s elegant white form, individual in the lime green of Damien, streak between the legs of the crowd, head twisting this way and that to help Sugar locate him. What a traitor.  
  
Zacharie steps backwards, but bashes his ear on the doorframe and trips over the lintel. He swears emphatically, long and hard, and falls heavily backwards with an almighty crash. Somewhere Dedan is cackling at his ridiculous display. He is sure of it. He raises a middle finger in case there are cameras in this room for good measure.  
  
He finds himself staring into Sugar’s clear eyes, as she grins crazily. “Found you!”  
  
He adds another middle finger. You never knew.  
  
He groans miserably as the cat pads into view. “Pablo. How the hell did she find me?”  
  
“Cease this obscene show, Zacharie. She was most persistent in pestering her way across Zone One in order to locate you.” Pablo stands on Zacharie’s chest, gazing at him intently. Is there something on his mask? Zacharie touches his ear briefly, and it stings wetly. He brings a bloody finger up to his field of vision. “Really,” is all he can come up with.  
  
The Judge mistakes it for an answer to his explanation and his expression turns slightly haughty. “Yes, really.”  
  
Zacharie is completely done, but he guesses he has to keep going and not die of embarrassment while his friend, his customers, and a little girl are watching him. So he lifts Pablo up and deposits his feline companion on the purple floor beside him and hauls himself up into a sitting position. “So tell me, how am I supposed to continue working like this?”  
  
Pablo ducks his head, as close to a shrug as he can get, _I couldn’t care less_ practically scrawled across his face. “I’m certain you’ll manage to comport yourself in an equally adjusted manner as you do every day.” He stretches, purring. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must depart. My brother and I are to rendezvous at the top of the newly-constructed Library with Japhet.” And he stalks out of the room, leaving Zacharie alone with Sugar. And, you know, four dozen curious Elsen who were providing a rather annoying background noise over which he couldn’t hear himself think.  
  
Zacharie rockets to his feet in a flash of energy, startling a bunch of poor Elsen and Sugar, who jumps back and raises her hands in a boxing stance. Curious. But he stretches and ignores it, throwing his arms outwards. “Okay!” he huffs, kneeling briefly to pick up his bag. “ _On y va, ma cherie._ ” He turns to Sugar, who looks right back at him in utter incomprehension. “Aren’t you coming?”  
  
“Yeah.” She grabs his arm, and he pushes his way through the throng of worker Elsen who breathe smoke into his face, and he tries hard not to cough (he was never fond of breathing smoke. His respiratory system just didn’t like it). Beside him Sugar wheezes, and he hurries up his pace. “Come on, kiddo,” he says to her, step becoming more sure of itself as he goes. “We’re going to get people to buy our shit.”  
  
The tram ride over to Pentel is far from the quiet solitude he’s used to, Sugar babbling in his ear about different things, and the last thing he hears before he drifts off to sleep is her impromptu song about pink elephants in tutus dancing in a parade as she peers out at the nonexistent scenery (most people could catch a glimpse of Zone Zero from here if they were watching carefully).  
  
He wakes roughly to her screeching. “Zacharie! Wake up!” she chatters impatiently, bouncing on the seat next to him. “We’re here! In Pen-tell!” She moves to shake him again, but he catches her in a headlock. “With you around, I don’t need an alarm clock, do I?” he growls playfully, ignoring the pang in his heart that tells him, _no, Zach, stop, you’re being stupid and you should not be doing this before she runs away and you get your heart trampled by her elephants in tutus._ He continues. “Besides, I always thought it was pronounced Pentel.” He pronounces it PEN-tull, and she frowns at him. He releases her. “Well, you’ve got your way and I’ve got mine, okay? Let’s go before the tram goes the other way again and we get stuck.” She screams gleefully, speeding down the tram aisle to hop off onto the platform.  
  
She trips, and when she skids to a halt she lies there, still. Zacharie experiences a miniature heart attack. “Oh, by the Queen’s holy add-ons,” he groans. “I didn’t ask for this shit.” It’s called attachment, Zach, his mind unhelpfully supplies, and he swats the idea away. Shut the fuck up, that’s stupid, Zach.  
  
The few Elsen on the platform have crowded around her, and he can already hear her whining about how it hurt. He speeds up and jostles the Elsen away from her. “’Scuse me, coming through.” He leans over her, face concerned under the mask. “Are you okay, kiddo?”  
  
She emits a loud whine that could almost be a sentence in itself complete with proper punctuation, syntax, and grammar. “I’ll take that as a no.” He shuffles in his pocket and produces a Luck Ticket. He puts it over her scraped knee (purely professional, he assures himself. There is no blossoming of warmth in his heart at all), and her pouting subsides. She pokes the ticket curiously. “What’s this?”  
  
“A Luck Ticket.” He pulls some out, and a Fortune Ticket for good measure. With an expert hand, he splays them, creating a golden-red fan. “These babies will heal just about anything except for Competence, Poison, Madness, Blindness, Muteness, Palsy… Actually they just restore health. Yeah.” Incredibly smooth, Zach. That’s quite enough, Zach. He pats her knee, where the Luck Ticket has melted into her now-clear skin. “See? Good as new.”  
  
“Good as new!” she chirps, and he laughs despite the ache in his chest. She clambers upright, using him as a handle, and he straightens up. “Okay. Pentel, here we come.”  
  
***  
  
The actual selling of things in Pentel is made interesting with her presence. He is glad of how she never fails to make him laugh, clamoring and terrorizing Elsen willy-nilly, screeching at them to buy his wares. But he does wish he’d stop feeling so guilty as he continues to duck out of sight every time her back is turned. It wasn’t like he’d asked for her, right? She was being a hassle. She really wasn’t worth it. It was best to separate cleanly and quietly, before he could see the look of heartbreak on her face…  
  
Nope. He can’t do it. He silently curses himself for being so soft and hustles out from behind the barn’s decorative pillars as she exclaims about the cows.  
  
Oh. Cows. Oh dear. He charges her, lifting her up onto his shoulders (later he would excuse it on the grounds of instinct) and prompting a startled “hhhHHHHH” from the Elsen showing her the livestock.  
  
“Nope!” he shouts, hustling away from the barns and towards the station. “Not today!” Sugar wriggles and squirms in his grasp, howling something about fur and bones and blood and wiggling sprites. He has absolutely no idea how she knows what a sprite is, but even though he finds it nice that somebody else knows about being just a construct of the game, he doesn’t want her to freak out anymore.  
  
He sets her down at the tram platform, wheezing and panting from his sprint. She scowls at him, dusting her jacket off. “What was that for?” she demands, giving him a glare worthy of the Queen. He’ll remind himself to tell Vader about her next time she invites him to tea.  
  
But he just shakes his head. “Come on, kid. We’re gonna take the tram to Shachihata.”

***  
  
The Postal Office’s air is filled with the droning of Elsen reciting stamp and form numbers. Sugar immediately hides behind him, but he brings her out by the shoulders. “It’s nothing to be scared of.” He gestures toward one Elsen, who gazes at them with large eyes. His mouth moves automatically, but Zacharie notes a small tremor in his hands as he simply says, “Form 37332, stamp 14546.”  
  
“Hey,” calls Zacharie, and many Elsen lift their heads, although they continue talking. “Who’s up to buying something?”  
  
A couple of Elsen make their way forward with credits clutched in their hands, and he whips the bag from behind his back. “Lemme see what you got. What can I get for you?”  
  
A few pieces of Moloch’s meat (superstitious protection against becoming burnt, he guesses) and luck tickets lighter, he bids them adieu as he and Sugar wait for the elevator.  
  
Once they are crammed inside the tiny elevator, Sugar pipes up. “Where are we going?”  
  
“Oh, just a pit stop,” Zacharie waves airily. He fishes a piece of paper out of his pocket and glances it over, reading the instructions Pablo dictated to him earlier.  
  
The elevator opens up at the basement, and the lone watch Elsen looks up. “Hhhh. G-greetings.”  
  
“ _Salut,_ ” affirms Zacharie, holding up his bag. “I got some trinkets you might want for yourself.”  
  
The Elsen spreads his hands and shakes his head, looking wary. “N-n-no, thank you,” he whispers. “I have no credits today…”  
  
“Oh, well that’s just too bad.” He drops the bag unceremoniously, a great clunk and clatter filling the room. He jerks a thumb at the door facing them. “If you don’t mind, I have a little something to check out.” He rummages in the bag and extricates a yellow box. He pats Sugar on the head. “I’ll be right back, okay? Wait here. Don’t scare the poor guy.”  
  
The next room is a lot bigger than the watchman’s room. He glances around and sets the yellow box down randomly on the floor, where it starts floating. He pats it to make sure it works, and is rewarded with a tingling that spreads from his fingers throughout his body. Feeling lighter, more exuberant, he returns to the room, but something is missing.  
  
“I told her the main floor number and she went back up,” the Elsen breathes.  
  
God dammit. Zacharie thanks the Elsen absently (“hhhh?”) and follows Sugar’s example.  
  
Once on the main floor, she spots him coming out of the elevator and rushes over to him. “Zacharie! Zacharie!” she hollers. “I found out a thing!”  
  
“And what is that thing? Don’t yell.”  
  
“They all say different things!” She clamors. “Except in that one!” He follows her finger to the block she is pointing at, on the left of the front door. He doesn’t bother telling her it’s rude to point. “Those ones all say form 2584, stamp 10258.”  
  
“Wow,” he muses. “That’s pretty clever.” Her chest swells with pride (and his does too), her arms akimbo, and he ruffles her hair awkwardly. “Ready to go?”  
  
She stares up at him, wide-eyed. “Where are we going next?”  
  
“Alma.”

***  
  
He nods to the Elsen guarding the doorway to Alma (“whhhhhho are you”) and leads Sugar through the room to the meat fountains.  
  
The meat falls are no less magnificent or bloody than he last remembered. He must note to Dedan about the color scheme; neon green and meat really didn’t mix at all.  
  
Sugar stares, gapemouthed, and he tugs on her hand as a lone Elsen strides purposefully towards them.  
  
“Hello,” begins the Elsen, nervous as hell from what Zacharie can tell. “You’re at the meat fountains of Alma, center of the first Zone.  
  
“Here, meat flows freely, continually filling the immense metal pools you see here before you…”  
  
Zacharie takes over. “Your work consists of pouring this meat into bottles before the fountains overflow,” he blurts, much faster than the Elsen. He continues, reciting from memory. “The meat is then delivered immediately to all the other zones, from Zone One on. As the first of four elements, it’s an important element. Because without meat, people would have nothing to eat. They would die of starvation, one after another.”  
  
The Elsen gapes at him, bewildered. “Y-yes, that’s all correct… how do you know?”  
  
Zacharie shrugs, spreading his arms expansively and clasping them. “Been here so many times I lost count. Oh, and Dedan has an office here, but you guys haven’t found it, and he appears only when needed. How’d I do? I’ll assume it’s all correct, which I know it is.”  
  
The dumbfounded Elsen stammers unintelligibly, and finally stands aside to let him pass. Zacharie winks. “Thanks. Sure you don’t want to buy anything?” The Elsen shakes his head. “Fair enough. See you around.” He really can’t tell them apart that well, to be honest. They look so similar, yet he finds that if he gets to know some of them (which he doesn’t actually try to, but it happens) he can differentiate between a few of them.  
  
Sugar follows in his shadow, eyes drinking in all of Alma. “It’s so loud,” she breathes, and Zacharie chuckles. “That’s what happens when lots of liquid meat falls from a height. You’ll get used to it.” _Like you have, Zach? You still flinch every time you enter the maze,_ his subconscious whispers.  
  
He tugs her towards the pedalo point. “Come on, kiddo. Have you ever ridden in a pedalo?” She shakes her head uncertainly. “It’ll be fun.”  
  
The Elsen guarding the pedalo-summoning point begs to differ. He refuses stubbornly to leave, unless they fight him, and Zacharie loathes the idea of being responsible for another burnt. He’s also not allowed to sell or barter with sugar in any other zone than Zone Three, so he offers some meat in exchange for a pedalo summons. The Elsen gives in.  
  
The fit is tighter than he remembers, with her sitting in his lap and his bag sitting on the tail as always. But he manages to pedal and steer the bloody-bottomed pedalo down the meat river. He thinks he sees a few Luck Tickets sink into the meat in his peripheral vision as he pedals.  
  
Sugar squeals, craning to get a better look at the flowing meat. “Hey,” Zacharie warns. “You’ll end up in the river if you do that, and I’m not going to stick around if the Troquantaries get a hold of you.”  
  
“What’re those?” she pouts, returning to her position against the neck of the pedalo.  
  
“Aquatic ghouls with radiant smiles,” he recites from memory. “No seriously,” he adds after a while. “They have killer smiles, but you won’t notice it until they wreck your pedalo and eat you whole. Hell, two Troquantaries could probably have a week-long feast on Enoch if he fell in.” She frowns at him. “Yeah, I’m frowning back. Now don’t disturb me, okay? I can’t pedal and talk at the same time.”  
  
When they disembark, he waves cheerily at an Elsen guarding another pedalo point. “Buenos dias, amigo. Would you care to buy anything?”  
  
The Elsen shakes its head. “N-no thank you,” he breathes. “Perhaps later…”  
  
“Okay. Keep your credits if you’re fine with it. Although, there is a discount on all meat today,” he adds, smirking a little under the mask.  
  
“Y-y-yes. In that case, I’ll take some.” The Elsen rummages in his pocket, sweating nervously. “I- I’d like a Moloch’s meat, please…” He tries to hand Zacharie the small wad of credits, but the merchant shakes his head. “Sorry, mon ami, that’s still not enough.”  
  
“W-w-wh-what?” The poor Elsen stammers as he frantically searches for more credits. He is beginning to drip acrid fluids from his eyelids and it foams slightly as it dribbles from his mouth. Smoke rises from his eyes, staining his skin a mottled grey, and Zacharie recognizes the telltale signs of going burnt. He draws Sugar behind him as he tries to placate the Elsen. “Whoa there, amigo, it’s okay. I’ll give you a discount today, and..”  
  
“No,” gasps the Elsen, breathing ragged as he grasped with cracked hands at Zacharie’s shirt, spreading black blood everywhere. Come to think of it, it is similar to what Sugar had been covered in when he’d found here… He shoots a glance backwards at her, and is surprised at her unruffled smooth countenance as she watches him.  
  
Well. If a little girl isn’t scared by a burnt, then he can handle it… right?  
  
He turns to the Elsen, and is shocked at the fountain of burnt body mass that stands before him. If there’s anything he’s learned from his misadventures in this world, it’s that you have to get rid of burnts before they tear you apart. He grits his teeth and reaches for his sword at his hip…  
  
Oh. Shit, it isn’t at his hip anymore. Becoming a merchant had meant that he’d given up his weapons, but he still _needs_ it, goddammit, Pablo!  
  
The burnt turns as a flying baseball bat hits it square in the… neck? (he didn’t have time for politeness, it was going to _hurt them_ ). Zacharie turns too, to see Sugar crouched at his bag, glaring fiercely through the curtain of hair, small hand outstretched. He doesn’t know why, but the bold move floods him with affection and gratitude. As the burnt is distracted, Zacharie darts to pick up the bat from where it has clattered to the ground, wood clanking against metal ground. He grips it tightly, the weight rendering him clumsier than usual.  
  
 _Thwack._ The first hit sends the burnt reeling, and the vibrations that jolt through his arms makes them numb. He grunts, steels himself and swings again, and again, and again. Six times he swings, and five times it impacts.  
  
The sixth time, he completely misses, and the burnt catches him upside the head.  
  
He staggers, the blood already flowing through his hair down his neck and he can almost see the starbursts, such bright colors in front of his eyes that dazzle and the prickling as the blood trickles down his neck. “How fortunate,” he mumbles thickly, cracking a smile behind the mask at his inadvertent pun, and slaps a Luck Ticket to his head wound. It sticks to the already matting blood, and he can almost feel the endorphins released when it gets to work. It itches.  
  
The burnt lurches towards him, and he raises the bat once more. Best finish the poor beast off as soon as possible, right? He summons all of his resolve, aims the bat at the burnt’s ribs, and swings as hard as he can.  
  
It is a squelch. No, a crack. It is both, he decides as black blood blossoms on the former Elsen’s shirt. The burnt collapses to the ground, wheezing for air. It chokes, gurgling, and hacks up blood. Zacharie has dropped the bat, and his arms sting all the way past his shoulders. He groans, shaking himself out. The Luck Ticket, drained of its healing powers, flutters to the ground, now a pure white.  
  
“Zacharie,” says a soft voice behind him, and he whirls to face Sugar, her eyes wide as she goggles at him and the fresh corpse he has created. He’s practically forgotten she was there, to be honest. There is no real emotion behind her face as she takes his hand, tugging him along, his bag in the other hand. “Let’s go.”  
  
“Yeah.” He finds his voice, and has the presence of mind to slip the bat back into the bag she holds as they walk. The closest Elsen guarding a pedalo summoner has seen everything, and he cowers as the pair approach him.  
  
“Hello,” says Zacharie wearily. “Up to buying anything today?” He is not ready for graces right now.  
  
The Elsen responds in the abject negative.  
  
So does the next, who has not witnessed the fight, but still refuses.  
  
By the time he has made the round of Alma proper, he has only sold a few Luck Tickets and some cuts of Moloch’s meat. Somehow he is forbidden to sell Silver, Golden, and Abbadon’s meat to Elsen. He remembers Vader Eloha’s cryptic reasoning. “It will bring them to the meat’s namesake.” Asking Pablo revealed that the meaning of the name Abbadon is synonymous with destruction, ruin, and perdition. He had pulled a face and asked if the Queen was really going to coddle generic citizens Hugo had dreamed up out of nowhere. He’d gotten some claw marks for his trouble.  
  
And now he paces the street of Alma, summoning a pedalo. He ushers Sugar in while he himself is perched in the pedalo (oh, he’d pay all of his credits to see Dedan stuffed in a pedalo. His mouth quirks at the stray image). Finding his balance is not as hard, and he docks it smoothly, losing only one Luck Ticket in the meat rivers this time. Oh well. The lucky Elsen who found it would be in some need of it.  
  
The maze never fails to scare him slightly, and he cringes briefly as he steps over the threshold. He has memorized the route, and the music slowly increases in volume. The deafening roar of the tune fades away as they climb the stairs, Zacharie taking possession of his bag. They walk in silence, comfortably.  
  
He pauses at the ornate purple doors wrought in metal and solid plastic. “Just a warning,” he cautions Sugar, one palm flat on the door. “Dedan’s always really… mean, and grumpy, and, well, he’s just really rude to everyone, okay?” The dumbed-down version of things makes him tense, and he relents. “He’s a jerkass, and don’t take it personally if he insults you. Everyone gets insulted. It’s Dedan.”  
  
She nods gravely, smirking, and he sighs. “Here goes nothing.” He pushes the door open.  
  
A roar greets him, and Dedan is standing, hands on the desk as he leans forwards. “What took you, you little shit?” he howls, gripping a sheaf of papers that Zacharie is surprised haven’t been torn to shreds already. The game is preparing itself for the return of the King, or so they’ve been told, and Dedan is even more on edge these past few days. “I’ve got important—“ For the first time, Dedan cuts himself off in courtesy, and points at Zacharie. “You’re bleeding, you sloppy bastard,” he accuses, harsh grating voice uncharacteristically, well, not shouting, and Zacharie twitches in annoyance.  
  
“Yeah, I noticed. Don’t worry, I put a Luck Ticket on it right away.” He takes a step forwards, making himself heard above the noise of the rushing meat fountain.  
  
“Dedan, you should really go easy on the workers, it’s your own damn fault we had a burnt on our hands who attacked us, now you’ve got another station to fill—“  
  
Dedan’s attention has shifted and he barks suddenly. “Who’s the kid? I thought Hugo was the only kid here.”  
  
“Uh, yeah, that’s where you’re mistaken.” He takes on a bit of Pablo’s smoothness. “This is Sucre,” he begins stating, and his stomach dips and rises at that, “and she is simply a wandering- anomaly- and is undoubtedly also a construct of the game, and is obligated to follow me around,” He can only semi-understand the crap he is spewing. He can also feel Sugar’s disgusted glare boring holes into his arm because of his dismissal of her, and it makes him feel filthy. _Wow, Zach, abandoning a kid who pretty much saved your life a half hour ago._ “So,” he tries to change the subject. “You want to give me those files?”  
  
“Trade them for two hunks of Silver Meat and one of Abbadon’s,” Dedan snarls sourly, now sitting slouched in his high-backed chair.  
  
You’re on.” Silver Flesh has gained its name for obvious reasons; the meat and blood that run from it can only be called gray as it glints in the dim lighting of Dedan’s office. Two sizable steaks of that are pulled from the bag and set aside as Zacharie searches for Abbadon’s meat. It is mistakable for Moloch’s meat at first sight, but the smell, a salty bittersour stench is what sets it apart in physicality. Zacharie has to tilt his mask up briefly to check it properly, and he can feel Sugar trying to catch a glimpse of his scars.  
  
“Here.” He tosses the three cuts of meat across the table, and Dedan catches them effortlessly, slapping them down on the desk. In return, he throws the papers, which land like a book at Zacharie’s feet.  
  
He salutes Dedan lazily after he picks up the files, motioning for Sugar to follow him. “Come along, kiddo.”  
  
“So where are we going now?” she asks him as they exit the office and stand at the floating red box.  
  
He takes her by the wrist and touches the box. They phase out of Zone One into the Nothingness, and as he walks briskly he then answers.  
  
“Home.”  
  
***  
  
She has gone to sleep, and he is again silently berating himself for going soft as he restores the lustre of the bat he has used today. The dried crust of black ooze is near impossible to remove, and he almost considers throwing it out into the acid plastic. He shakes his head disapprovingly, skittering his fingers up and down the bat. They stick in the gunk slightly, and he wipes it off roughly on his shirt. It’s a shame he can’t just get anything out of the fabric. He rather _liked_ this shirt.  
  
He ponders the day’s events, and isn’t very sure what to think. Like sure, he’s grateful and all that Sugar saved him earlier, but it doesn’t mean he’s going to dote on her like a guardian angel. Really. He isn’t that soft.  
  
He picks at the hardened black mass spattered on the bat with his stubby nails and decides it’s beyond help. What a price to pay for a life, he snarks. Maybe he’ll give it to Enoch. See if it’s any good for sugar production. He shudders briefly at the thought of Sugar finding out how sugar gets made, and there is all the more incentive to distance himself from her in case she keeps following him around.  
  
He also needs to visit Zone Two more often now. The roller coaster is close to completion. Just a few more paint cans to go. Japhet is so picky; there is no need for the underside to be painted magenta too. Honestly. Some people. Avians. Guardians. Whatever.  
  
He lies down, staring up at the dappled moonlight dancing off the plastic onto the ceiling.  
  
It is never hot or cold in the game. He would’ve forgotten what temperature felt like were it not for how sometimes, he maintains the bats and feels a rush of warmth spiral through his body. Or is it annoyance? Excitement? He is his own source of heat. Pablo is warm too, but he’s just such a stickler, isn’t he?  
  
The kid is cold. Effusive, yes, but her hands are icy. It’s as much of an oddity as her existence. And how does she know this is just a game? It would actually be nice if she’d stay, he isn’t too keen on Elsen staring at him as if he’s crazy. Sales are bad enough anyways…  
  
He shakes his head. Stupid, Zach, he chides himself. There will be no stupid rosy future with a broken wall. You just try to find a place to dump her and mind your own business.  
  
He sighs deeply and turns over.  
  
Pablo is inches from his face.  
  
Zacharie yelps and scrambles into a sitting position, clutching at his chest. “By the Queen Mother,” he gasps, heaving. “What are you _doing_ at this time of night?”  
  
“Merely saying good night to an acquaintance.” The Judge sits impassively there, and Zacharie scoffs shortly. “If you say so. Good night.”  
  
He quirks an eyebrow, as Pablo does not leave. “Is there something I don’t know about that you’re not telling me?”  
  
Pablo looks as if he is battling his emotions and finally speaks. “I find that my dear brother is slowly changing,” the cat begins, standing up and beginning to pace. “And it concerns me, how he is slowly becoming more and more like Japhet, who, as you know, is degenerating into what appears to be dementia.”  
  
Zacharie has to resist the urge to pick at his fingernails and drawl “you don’t say” in the most annoying manner possible. Instead he says, “I know about Japhet, yes, but Valerie comes as a complete surprise.” He clams up and listens patiently as Pablo continues.  
  
“I have become concerned, in fact, that somehow Japhet is influencing Valerie, to the point where he will be severely injured in the near future. And in the foresight of such a thing happening, I have begun my travails and started the construction of a hidden room.” Here he pauses again and calmly says, “Would you care to assist me, dear Zacharie? There is only so much I, as a feline, can do.”  
  
Zacharie foresees absolutely no chance of sleeping soon tonight anyways, and decides eh, why not. He stands up heavily and gestures towards the door. “Lead the way.”  
  
It turns out to be in the room with the numbers, a shallow dent already. Zacharie scratches his head and pulls out a shredded tunic and a stick of compressed cinders akin to charcoal. He draws a cross-section of the floor plan on the tunic, and then draws a bird’s eye view. “Here’s what I think you should do,” he offers, and Pablo surveys the plot.  
  
He snorts. “How elaborate. I hardly need a cavern, Zacharie. I need a cellar. Preferably without over-decorative pillars.”  
  
Zacharie sighs behind the mask, using it as a cover to give Pablo a withering scowl. “Fine,” he says, flipping the cloth over. “Let me try again.”  
  
He has to go through five drafts in total before Pablo finally approves. It is simple, a hallway and a room. Zacharie’s inner interior decorator (since when did he have one?) rails in fury against the spartan architecture. What is the point of having a hidden chamber if you can’t even enjoy it aesthetically?  
  
He sighs and leans against the wall, yawning as discreetly as he can. Pablo catches him in the act. “I’m most sorry, Zacharie,” he says apologetically. “You must be exhausted. Please, I request that you depart and repose yourself.”  
  
“Nah, I’m fine,” Zacharie insists automatically. Then he yawns again.  
  
The Judge won’t take no for an answer. He winds his way around Zacharie’s legs, making him stumble and lose his balance. “Go,” Pablo insists, herding Zacharie out of the room. “I myself am about to retire for the night.”  
  
Zacharie finds his way to the makeshift bed he prepares every night, his bag for a pillow and a tunic for a blanket (they’re twice as big as his shirt and don’t fit anyone else properly, what’s the point of selling merchandise nobody needs or can use), and drops like a rock to his knees. His shoulders meet the floor with a muted thud, his mask shortly after with a quiet _thwack_ and Sugar, next to the stairs, shifts in her sleep. He sighs quietly and wriggles as he moves to adjust the tunic over his body.  
  
Behind the mask, he closes his eyes. It does not take long for him to slip out of consciousness.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only dedan can fit into the tunics which is a shame because why else do you think zacharie carries around shredded tunics


End file.
